


It's Hard to Dance With the Devil on Your Back

by Calyps0



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Complete, F/M, Happy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-07-10 07:34:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15944723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calyps0/pseuds/Calyps0
Summary: DiscIaimer: I own absolutely nothing: not Star Wars, not Disney, not even the title of this fic, which is a line from a church hymn that seemed fitting, funnily enough.Anyway, hope you enjoy!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> DiscIaimer: I own absolutely nothing: not Star Wars, not Disney, not even the title of this fic, which is a line from a church hymn that seemed fitting, funnily enough. 
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy!

When the bond appears, it’s like a shooting star.

 

He feels it in his chest— a singing, a burst of lightning, sweet, so sweet, and it travels, pebbles of light connecting, and he feels it answer from across the galaxy.

It reverberates, resonates, and there is such a connection, such a _feeling,_ it nearly sends him to his knees. He thinks for a second he’s dying, but he feels only ecstasy, no pain. He sinks down anyway, clutching his heart. Halfway across the universe, whole solar systems away, power— pure, raw power—mirrors in her. This woman, this light—if they were suddenly a thousand, even a million lightyears apart, he knows, without ever having met her, that he could find her. His perfect starting point that sings: _home._  

He doesn’t know, can’t possibly know, but she is his destiny.

\---

When they meet, they are suns colliding. She is fire, a whirlwind of light and heat. When he first felt the bond, this tugging, in his chest, it was a compass rose, directing him to her. And suddenly she’s in front of him, strapped to an interrogation chair, and he can hardly breathe. He takes his mask off, has to, _has to_ see her with his own two eyes. Wants so desperately to touch her, thinks electricity, a current, would run, pass between them.  He’s so close to her, now, he can see every freckle dusting across her cheeks. He’s certain there’s awe on his face, but he can’t seem to change his expression—he seems to have lost all control. Up until this point, he’s subsisted, satisfied himself with dreamed up visions of what she would be like. Now, with her right here with him, she is everything he expected her to be and nothing at all like he anticipated, all at once. But nothing he’s imagined comes even _close_ to the marvel she truly is, to the way she makes him feel inside, soft and vulnerable and afraid. She invades his mind with a power he couldn’t have conceived, and he is both angry and elated. She glares, and he scowls, and they clash.

She is fire, and he burns.

\---

When she escapes, he feels the loss like a little fragmented piece of his heart.

\---

He doesn’t know when he will see her again; it could be years, or decades—and just the thought makes him shudder—but mere moments later, she is on a balcony, high above him: his judge, his executioner, his condemning angel.  But his father is in front of him, and then he’s not, and it’s fuzzy, because the bowcaster wound _hurts_ , but he thinks she might have screamed.

\---

She runs. She’s flighty, a bird, and he wants to capture her.

Knows, though, that she will not be restrained.

He follows, anyway.

\---

There’s a fight in the snow, and she is an icy goddess. There is reverence on his face, in his eyes, and, for a moment, he would bow down before her if he weren’t afraid she would cut him down. She leaves, again, and he feels the sorrow, again, but she leaves further away this time, and it aches more.

\---

She is gone—really, truly gone, but every time he looks in the mirror he sees evidence of her, knows, then, she hasn’t been just a fevered dream. The wound is angry, a river of red, but he refuses to let it heal fully.

He wants it to scar.

He wants to remember.

\---

He gets visions of an island, and it is beautiful, lush, and green. And she is jubilant, in their connection. He can sense her wonder.  After all, he’s been in her mind, before, bore witness to her past—all endless heartbreak and unforgiving desert.

Even knowing that she is safe, she is alive, comes as great comfort to him. And he’s almost finished convincing himself that this is enough, that if he can just feel her presence, then he doesn’t need to meet her again, when she appears before him.

And he has but a second to appreciate the stone cabin, the dirt floors, her lovely, wind-mussed hair, the endearing pink of her cheeks—

All before she raises her blaster and _shoots_ at him.

Which manages to wound him just a _bit_ less than if the blast had hit its mark.

\---

They meet, now and again, after that: in the rain, by the fire, in their dreams—each time more volatile, more charged, more electric. Water sluices off of him, and she hurls accusations like stones. But later, warmed by firelight, she reaches out to him, and there is such a sensation, a hook sinking, clawing its way into him. He is surprised, but incredibly pleased, that they manage to touch. But in that motion, that simple slide of careful, trembling fingers, an ocean is conjured up, summons a waterfall of memories. He’s shocked, gasps with the feeling. And this union—

He can feel himself drifting toward her, would’ve, if he hadn’t remembered himself. His body is moving without his consent.

He has to remind himself, then, that they are enemies.

Opposites, each on the side of an ancient war.

He will _not_ turn.

He will _not_ let himself be corrupted. He shows her this, in his own way. Even after she has poured out her heart to him, confessed her struggle, her encounter with the dark side, he is not swayed. Something inside is breaking, surely.

He doesn’t want her.

He doesn’t need her.

But then why is this bond is telling him otherwise?

He needs to clear his head. The connection severs, fizzles out. She disappears.

 _Good_ , he tells himself. _Let her go._

But his heart hurts, just a little more.

\---

When the main freighter receives a surprise shipment, he just _knows_ what will be waiting inside.

Her nimble fingers grip the sides of the container, and he doesn’t want to think about how it looks like she’s lying in a coffin, peaceful and serene. But no, she is vibrant, and alive, and the way she looks at him, with awe, might break a lesser man.

But he is not a lesser man.

He is a knight, and an apprentice, and an heir to the most dangerous man known to the galaxy.

Does she think that he will change? That he can be good?

No, he has been corrupted long ago. She must understand; he needs to make it perfectly clear.

He takes her to his master.

\---

What happens in the throne room is…unexpected.

He hands her over, and considers the consequences, believes he will be fine with the outcome. But then she is being tortured, right in front of him, and there is the dam cracking, rivulets uniting into endless seas.

Will he submit, then, to his ancestors, by the mistakes of a past he was too young to partake in?

Will he let her _die_ , a woman whose power is tremendous, and unfathomable, and terrifying, and limitless? All because dynasties before him, forebears dripping with royalty, and lineage, have dictated they be enemies?

He slices his master in half.

They lock eyes for a fraction of a second, in the very eye of the storm.

He just might turn out to be master of his own fate after all.

\---

They fight together.

They _fit_ together.

They swirl, and duck, and dodge, and the bond is dancing with them, twirling and waving; there is perfect harmony, a symphony of steps, a balance.

And in the aftermath, he does what seems the next logical step—he reaches out to her, asks her to join him, truly believes she will. He has newfound visions of an empire, a holy cathedral of power to blot out all past mistakes. They could have a galaxy all their own, whole planets, entire systems, all to themselves. She would rule by his side—a queen, an empress, his match in every way. He would worship her, adore her, and she would throw her past away, devote herself to him. When else would he get this chance? He has been gifted a perfect equal.

But she looks at him with disdain, like a judging seraph, unearthly in her beauty, and her tragedy. Why must it be this way? Why must it hurt so much?  She leaves, _again_ , for the third time, and his heart is cleaving, isn’t it? Because she always leaves, and it always aches.

\---

When she closes the door on him, he wants to die.

 


	2. Chapter 2

It is weeks before they meet again.

He is in his quarters, feeling a strange, listless sort of feeling. His thoughts, as they too often do now, drift to her. He wonders if she can feel what he feels, if she hungers  for him, too, as he does her—like a physical craving, like an addiction, as involuntary as his breath, or his heartbeat. Just a fact. A truth.

He snorts.

Unlikely.

Vexation knifes through him. He is restless, and unmotivated, and on edge.

Suddenly, she is there. Materializes, but so seamlessly it’s as if she belongs there, has always belonged. Her eyes are round, and bright. There’s just a small chance, but she might have been crying.

His lips part, eyes widening just a fraction. Moves to stand, is _pulled_ toward her by some unknown force before he notices his feet are even moving.

She’s staring at him like she’s never seen him before— like he’s some peculiar, exotic thing to be discovered, or observed. It doesn’t feel prying, but it’s intimate in a way that speaks to the loneliness that’s been tugging at his soul, so unused is he to the feeling, this—this companionship, this connection.

There’s something that passes between them then, so soft, so distant, it’s a shadow of a feeling. He’s not sure, hasn’t felt it for some time, but it feels very close to longing.

It’s strange, unknown to him, unexpected.

Stranger still is the way it settles, on her face, through the line of her mouth, in her eyes.

It echoes, resonates there, in the cracks between them, in the breaks in their composure, in the gazes that cross between them, tempered and unwavering. It is there in the way her name is spoken, a sigh on his lips: a promise, a prayer. It is there when he closes his eyes, her image forever imprinted in his retinas.

It is there when she leaves.

Dissolves, silent, before his covetous arms could rise to close in around her, convince her to stay—an hour, a night, forever. He stumbles from the illusory motion.

 _What is it about her?_ he wonders aloud, hours later, when he is alone, and has regained his ability to think. Seeing her, even just being near her, the mere occasion of her proximity, is enough to completely divert him, give him a strange, cloudy feeling that he can’t shake. It seeps into him, scattering his thoughts and fuzzying his memories. He doesn’t like her, necessarily—can’t—he doesn’t know her, but when he speaks, even thinks of her, her name, her eyes, she encompasses him.

Why should she affect him this way? It’s cloying, sickening, and suffocating, and he feels cloudy, hazy, disoriented. Off balance.

Things have shifted.

Rearranged.

But, disappointingly, there’s no clarity. Only a befuddling sense that something, something’s different, something’s wrong. Worrying— or, or it should be, but there’s a blanketing sense, blocking out all concerns, blurring edges and blasting lines out of his periphery.

When he has a moment to collect his thoughts, he can’t understand how she can even bear to be in his presence. She should have every reason to hate him, loathe him, for what he’s done.

Instead, he gets the alarming sense that she experiences nothing more than profound curiosity.

So forgiving—or naïve, perhaps, but it’s alluring, almost. To have such faith, such optimism, in the face of immeasurable odds. 

When did he start feeling this way? He knows, has known, for some time now, what she feels for him. Has known since he saw the expression on her face when he took off his mask, felt the spark of attraction unfurl within her. Only felt it grow, when she reached out to him, again and again, sensed her hope for him, the unwavering belief he could be saved. The sensation caresses him, a warm hand, a familiar touch.

He waves it away, unwanted.

Yes, he is certain how she feels.

Him, though, he shouldn’t give a thought to this girl, this nothing, this _no one._ And yet she retains this power over him, somehow, that obliterates all rational thought. Eliminates it completely, a line in the sand, as if it was never there. He’s starting to feel something, something he knows is dangerously close to obsession. It’s jumped the line from attraction, skipped over it altogether. He knows, objectively, that he’s attracted to her, but it’s more of an afterthought, really. No, this _thing_ luring him is something different entirely.  It’s fretful, and frightening. She bleeds into his vision when she’s not there, slithers into his thoughts without his permission, and her voice echoes in his head, softly, soothingly. He can feel her, a vice, around his chest. And when he concentrates, if he has the clarity to—which, annoyingly enough, isn’t too often these days—there’s a pain there, to the left of his sternum, empty and echoing. Gathering, like droplets of rain, collecting, coalescing, and then dispersing, over and over again, like the tide.

It’s uncontrollable, and he hates not being in control. His feelings for her are compulsive, and automatic—that’s the truth. He tries to convince himself. Doesn’t think it very much works.

But still, it’s there. It’s a reflex that makes him do things, say things he wouldn’t have even considered until he’s already knee-deep in doing them, and saying them. It makes him kill his master. It makes him offer her the galaxy.

It makes him _vulnerable,_ and suddenly, this is the worst sin of them all _._ _This_ is what damns her.

This bond needs to die. It needs to end, _now._

Maybe then he can stave off these unwelcome thoughts, these ideas buzzing about his head, too good to be true, not even worth thinking because he knows they’ll only end up in disappointment. He’ll self-sabotage until his self-fulfilling prophecy comes true, just as it should. No need for unsolicited glimpses into a future that’ll never come to pass.

His hand rises automatically to rub at the skin over his sternum, to press, _hard_ , to suffocate this tender, hollow numbness. He hates this ache, this soreness, like a bruise left unhealed. It makes him feel fallible: a man—not a leader, not a ruler. If he could rise above the prison of his emotions, he would. Would become steel, and iron, ramrod straight, solid and sure.

But his body is soft, and weak, and mortal, and imperfect. Flesh and joints and blood and sinew, flawed at every turn.

Not that he hasn’t tried to escape it. His armor does a good job. Under his mask he could be anyone, or anything, as gruesome as his victim’s imagination. But then he remembers that _she’s_ already seen what’s under it, already knows the man he is, knows she thinks of him as the ­ _boy_ he once was—a thousand years ago—the boy whose mother kissed his forehead, who sang him songs as he drifted off to sleep.

Well, too bad. That boy is dead, and gone, and long-since buried, heaped up under unsounded suffering and heartache. There’s as much chance for him to be alive as there is chance for his grandfather to rise up from the dead, cape swirling, mask glinting, singing Alderaanian lullabies.

He pushes the thoughts from his mind. He doesn’t want to think about his mother, or his grandfather, or any member of his forsaken family. His mother would kill him if she got the chance, he’s sure, as payback for what he did to his father.

He can’t blame her.

Even the mighty Darth Vader, his idol, who he worshipped for years, was but a man who fell in love and brought upon himself his own demise. Too weak to do what must be done.

No, his ancestors are nothing. Their bones crack and sigh, speak to the failures they were—the failure he is.

None of which lessens this feeling in his chest—only adds to the heaviness that seems to be sinking into his very soul. So he does what he’s done off and on again for weeks, before sleeping, after waking, and in-between blinks: he thinks of her.

It seems today his body is hers to abuse. He’s still rubbing at his chest, his skin turning raw, and red, making little finger-tip size bruises, but every inch of him aches with the effort of not being with her. There is a well, too, a chasm in him from which she blinks, owlishly, from under sleep-dusted lashes. Across it a gulf stretches, separating them, an impregnable void filled up with a torture of his own design.

It hurts, and he wants it to hurt, wants it to hurt _more_ , wants it sharp, and painful, like a knife, twisting, drawing patterns on his skin, piercing, razor thin.

He wants it shrill, and harsh. Only gets dull, a gentle throb, here now, lulling, cresting and breaking, a wave.

And it’s infuriating—he wants to dig his fingers, his nails, into his skin, make it bleed rivers of red, something to ground him, make his feet reach solid ground. He wants to scream, shout himself hoarse, tear out his throat, his lungs. He needs clarity; he needs _feeling_. Angry, and severe, not gentle, doesn’t want a constant reminder, like a whisper, like a song. If he could only cut her out of his mind, exorcise her from him, leave only  a quiet calm, he might just be able to concentrate long enough for him to—

And the memories. Or, at least, they had been memories. Can’t they stop? Can’t _it_ stop? This dull, soft feeling? Something at the edges of his mind, like an experience he can’t remember, or a person he forgot. And suddenly he’s dizzy, so, so dizzy. And it’s—strange? Has the room always looked like this? So colorless, so devoid of life? His fingers shift in front of his face, and they seem to belong for a moment to someone else.

Feeling outside his body, like he’s in a tunnel, and his vision, his hearing, are cotton and wool, he shifts himself, lies down, closes his eyes. He doesn’t think he’s ever experienced _wooziness_ before but suddenly he’s certain that’s what he’s feeling. He feels very far away from his body.

Please, can’t he make it stop? He wants to take a blade, something with sharp edges, and cut and cut and _cut_ until there’s nothing left of her in his mind, or in his chest, or in his breath.

He’d like to hate her, maybe, or feel disregard, at the very least. Really, he’d like to feel nothing for her, no connection, no compassion. But he’d settle for hate. For anger. He can do anger. A feeling so acute, and jagged, and razor-sharp. He yearns for it like a physical craving, but still his body feels only a frustration, niggling at the back of his mind, a sigh, a constant reminder of her, only her.

She is a name he disowned, a memory from a childhood long renounced, a promise on the tip of his tongue, rejected and unfinished. A heartbroken, tear-stained _please._ And he can’t sleep, can’t rest, because she’ll niggle at him; she’ll rest, and settle, just settle, right in the confines of his heart.

But she’s not there, really—not fully, anyway—so for now he’s stuck with this miserable, hollow echo.

He sighs, still uncomfortably dizzy, and dulled, and _empty_ , and slips into a fitful, unsatisfying sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

She sees him, sees in her mind’s eye the suffering he takes, and takes, mournfully, open mouthed and sobbing, eyes wet and pleading with her to help. Screaming and raging and in pain, dragging his broken body and forcing, molding it, shaping it into submission, blacking out and screaming again and again, until his throat _tears_ , over and over again—a hundred times, a thousand times.

Waking up in pain, darkness and struggles and clawing, fighting to fall asleep, to stay asleep, to stay awake. Never knowing if his nightmares are worse than real life.

And still, she just observes.

His eyes are smudged purple, daubed like ink, veins green and dull, visible under the thin skin of his face, translucent in his agony: streaked with tears, streaked with soot, streaked with blood.

All the while, her standing there— just standing, unable to extend even a hand in comfort. Helpless to do anything but watch on in silent, unrelenting horror, while her own eyes glaze over with tears she is not allowed to shed.

The vision stays with her long after she wakes. It is heavy, and she carries it with her, a token, a talisman. It is burdensome, but she doesn’t set it down.

She goes to him.

\---

He dreams.

He dreams of waves, and water, and oceans expanding beneath him, filling him up, limitless, boundless, a clear, cold blue. He is everywhere, and nowhere, but the sea is taking him _somewhere_ , somewhere he desperately needs to go. So he lets it guide him, and he follows, and it takes him far, far away. He feels content, a sense of peace he hasn’t experienced in a long time, and for a slow, quiet moment, he revels in it. He has a direction, a purpose. Things are less murky, and though the water is deep, and fathomless, he feels inexplicably safe. A shore appears as dawn breaks through the clouds, but a shaft of light shines on his face, bringing him back to consciousness.

He nearly whimpers at the loss. It is too early, too soon. Who knew a dream could make him feel so bereft? But he is back in his body, and must suffer accordingly. The tightness in his chest grows, makes his stomach lurch, and even before he opens his eyes, he knows she is there.

\---

In a bizarre twist of fate— or maybe he really is going insane—she has materialized in his chambers. But he looks—really looks—and yes, she’s well and truly here, not just shadow and vapor, no plumes of smoke or spiraling mist.

Her gaze is glass on his skin, and he shatters just a bit more. He sits up, slowly, thumbs at the place just above his heart. He can’t take it, he can’t, not when she’s staring at him like that, not when he’s _seconds_ from a dream that is slipping from his fingers like sand.

But he can’t take it when she’s gone, either, because all he feels is a _need_ , a need for her. He needs to be as close as humanly possible to her, or as far away. Distance, distance, is—

Her eyes are clear, and shining, and they remind him of an ocean, one he’s seen before. He’s seen an ocean before, hasn’t he? Recently, too. Really recently. But she’s here again, and he’s fuzzy, again, and suddenly he can’t remember. He is _adrift_ , and he feels for a moment like that lost boy he once was.

Something passes between them, a need, a spark, a fire. Unholy and fretful, and as inescapable as the tide.

The answering tug in her chest both relieves and shocks him. A profusion of desire and want rapidly pours out of her in an unexpected, but reassuring deluge.

Ah. He hadn’t been certain, just had a feeling—

But now he knows.

She feels it, too.

\---

The spark catches, abruptly, grabs hold of them, feeding, multiplying, until they are both ensnared.

He reaches out to her, was always going to reach out to her. And she answers him, was always going to answer him. Their fingers, then hands, intertwine, until they have their arms wrapped around each other like vines. She sinks onto him, and he sinks into her, and they slip like they’re rocking in the hull of a ship, steady, and thunderous, and calming. He’s more alert, now, when she’s touching him, the haze is gone, but the obsession—the surge, the wealth of emotion he feels for her—remains. He tries to look past her, to see beyond her, but can’t— his eyes are drawn like magnets to swaths of smooth skin, and tiny freckles, dotted like constellations, on her back, her stomach, her chest, her thighs.

The feeling is smoldering between them, deep, charcoal embers of desire, and flames. They’re both eager, and uneasy, at the same time. It’s not what they want—not what either of them want—but they take what they can get. She’s scorching beneath him, and he’s sure he’s burning up, too. He’d let her burn him until there was nothing left, if that’s what she wanted, and it’s a terrifying realization. Thankfully, though, she has no such compunctions.

No, she seems content to revel in him, in his wounded, battered body, and find solace, for a fleeting, twinkling instant. And who is he to refuse? She is magnetic.

She _keens_ , once, brokenly, and it nearly undoes him.

He is a disciplined man, but this pull is not one even he can resist.

There’s a moment, then—a single, wonderful, terrible moment—when he feels her pleasure, feels the ripple of her muscles, and everything is suddenly, shockingly clear. He gasps with the intensity, of it, experiences his own release in response. He had forgotten what it felt like, this crystal-clear lucidity. It is heaven to him. But suddenly, in the aftermath, he feels the receding fog advance. He tries to grab at the clear-headedness like it is a physical object, but, like the dream, it is gone far too soon—slips through his fingers—and he wants to cry. In an instant, it is gone. There is no peace, no satiation, no calm. There is frustration, a buzzing, a cloud. And he wants her again, and again, a thousand times again, if only to feel that stunning clarity for a fraction of a second each time. Maybe he could piece all those moments together, one at a time, and realign himself somehow. Maybe then he could banish this feeling from his mind.

Instead, she tightens her arms around him, and her breathing fades until it is light, faint. She rests, at peace, but he can’t, he _can’t_ , and seconds later, or maybe hours—he’s not sure, he’s not sure of anything anymore—she is gone.

He doesn’t remember her getting up, or leaving, or tugging herself out of his arms, but he feels the absence of her weight, the lack of heaviness pressing in on his chest—for once a physical force—and it makes his pain greater, and better, at the same time. His arms are still held loosely out, as if she could slip back into them, but he’s getting cold, her warmth is gone, and the haze is stronger than ever. He stares, empty, restless with unused momentum, but he finds himself unable to do anything. It takes a great deal of effort to move even a single muscle. It’s foolish, but all his resolve is spilling, pooling, out of his ribcage, bubbling like blood, thick and viscous and _wet._

Frustration prickles at him. He’s tired, so, _so_ tired. Can’t he sleep? Will she haunt him again? Red rims his eyes but he can’t remember shedding a tear. He’d like to close them, like to rest, but is afraid his brain won’t let him. Will his subconscious dream up another ocean that looks like her? Will he forever see her eyes in its depths?

He shifts, and realizes that the silk of her skin, sublime and silvery, has imprinted on his. Her scent lingers in the air.

He balls his fists, and curls his toes, and shouts into the void.


	4. Chapter 4

She reaches out to him, again, and again, and again, but is met with resistance on all sides. Sweat drips down her body as she _pushes_ , harder and harder against the barrier, but can do nothing, _nothing_ , against its magnitude. She sees his face, shuddering and afraid, senses his exhaustion.  

Well, she’s tired, too.

It’s been too long, and they’ve both resisted, and they’ve both yearned, _ached_ , for the wrong reasons, but they were both too stubborn, too hard-headed, too proud.

But she’d crumbled long ago. She’d been waiting, waiting for him to swallow his pride, to fall, just once.

Waiting for him to confess his sins, a chance at absolution in a chapel of sanctity. Sacred, consecrated, devout. Something to unstick him from the path he’s mistakenly chosen—followed blindly, been too idealistic to regret.

She’s done all she can. He must make that leap, on his own.

She hears him scream.

She will wait some more.

\---

The days blend together with the nights. It might have been hours since his tryst with her; it might have been weeks. He’s not quite sure how much longer he can keep this up. But he’s crumbling; that much is for sure. He feels her, on and off— her joys, her hopes, her sadness, her despair. Her thoughts are knotted, sometimes, cordoned off and terse. Other times, they are clear as sunshine, projecting into his veins as if he is right there with her. It’s so powerful, he feels like shielding himself, shying away from the light—doesn’t want it to sentence, him, throw all his faults, his errors, into hard relief. Once or twice, though, their emotions work in tandem, and the connection is so raw, it take some of the weight off his chest, if only for an instant. He could live like this, he thinks. It’s not ideal, but it’s more than he deserves.

\---

It doesn’t last.

It starts with a twinge, a pang under his lung, like a puncture wound, slowly letting the air out. On and off, the connection goes dark, like it is dying, like a disease has taken root, festering and toxic. He tries to reach out to her, for the first time, the _very first time,_ but gets nothing in return. It wrenches at him, then, and the loss is a substantial, a deft blow, a stroke meant to kill. He’d gotten used to this link, this _union_ , between them, but now, it seems to be dissolving entirely. He doesn’t know what’s causing it, has no idea what to do to get it back.

He can’t imagine wanting to preserve something that has only caused him pain, but when he thinks of her, all rational thought scatters like winged insects, bites like painted glass. It’s foolish— idiotic, really—but he misses it.

Misses her.

Grief washes off him in waves, sheds crystal tears for what could have been.

\---

She’s been lenient with him until now:  benevolent, patient. But she can sense it—a creeping sensation that things are going to come to a crossroads, and sooner than they can possibly know. So she manipulates the connection. Shuts it off, for a time. Needs the time for herself, to be honest, to work things out on her end. It pains her to do so—can feel the intensity of his answering anguish, undisguised and primal—but it has to be done.

The seasons change, and the tide turns.


	5. Chapter 5

Sometimes, she is very, very faint. Sometimes, he can think, even go about his day like everything is normal, and not falling completely apart, like a sandcastle built on swirling water—depths and depths of ruinous destruction. On those days, he can almost forget the bond he once had with the scavenger girl from nowhere, whose freckles look like starlight and whose eyes are as deep and fathomless as the sea.

The girl who sat atop him and whimpered, and clutched and scrabbled at his ebony locks.

The girls whose lips—perfect, pink and plush—he never got the chance to taste.

But _sometimes_ , too, she is all he can think about, all his body remembers.

He can’t control what kind of day it will be, and today feels very much like the latter.

His vision is tunneling—shrinking, like a cyclone, a raging tempest. He might be blacking out. He feels very close to fading away—falling backwards, collapsing into dust, scattering like ashes—becoming nothingness. His fingers tremble, his chin quivers, his eyes gloss over with unshed tears. It’s been weeks— _weeks_ —but she hasn’t appeared to him. She hasn’t so much as said his name, sent a message from across that aching, throbbing emptiness. It spans between them, now, like a rope bridge that extends into nowhere, simply fades into the fog until it is out of sight. He wonders if he could grab at it, if it would hold, if he could walk it, step by step, inches at a time, crawling his way, until he finally reached the other side. Would he reach solid ground? Would the next slat appear under his feet? Or would it simply disappear, fall away, slide out from under him, sending him tumbling, tumbling, into the dark abyss?

He doesn’t know.

But he’d very much like to try.

At this point, he’d be willing to do anything, even get down on his knees and _beg_ for her to come to him. Before, he wouldn’t have imagined submitting himself like a dog, before someone like her, but now he couldn’t give a damn, couldn’t care, would obey her even if she wanted him to kiss at her boots. Nothing else in the universe, he knows, could give him such pain, such emptiness, such a feeling of isolation and loneliness he’s developed fantasies of tearing out his own innards, if only for a moment of relief, a respite in this aching rainstorm of agony.

_But tomorrow is another day_ , he reminds himself.

Perhaps, _tomorrow,_ she won’t hurt as much.


	6. Chapter 6

They should have known it would only be a matter of time.

It has been far too long. A different star system every other week: skirmishes and battles and firefights, but they knew something had to give. All the while they’d slithered their way through their own internal combats, their personal conflicts—

They should have known.

The _force_ knew, though, and it has had _enough_. Enough of the longing and the tears and the rift that spans months and lightyears, all at once.

Yes, the force knew, and, as they always knew it would, it manages to pull them together. The imbalance between the First Order and the Resistance, the dark side and the light, the wounded, vacant bond between the prince of darkness and the girl who commands the stars—

Now it all comes to a head.

\---

The Resistance chooses a small, Outer Rim planet to hide on, takes a gamble—a chance to regroup. She disembarks their small transport ship and smiles, smells the air, fresh and clean. Looks up, sees nothing but clouds and sun and sky. And green, lovely, lush green. When she walks on the hard, sun-kissed ground, it feels like fate.

\---

Mere hours later, it feels like doom.

Great freighter-shaped shadows appear above, blotting out everything in sight. Even the clouds have gone into hiding. He has tracked her down, and he’s going to wipe her out—her and everyone she’s ever loved.

And it’s not fair, really, because she knows how close he is to breaking.

\---

They meet in person, on the battlefield, for the first time in months. Seeing her face, her warm, pink flesh, right in front of him, does strange things to his insides.

Their blades lock, but it is half-hearted. Even though they are together, finally, _finally_ , together, they are each a million miles away.

\---

They call it a draw. Both of them stare, lock eyes, chests heaving. He has her up against a tree, and they each have their blade to the other’s throat.

But there is no malice between them, anymore. Just resignation.

The conflict is still erupting around them, but he deactivates his saber, and she follows suit.

\---

He tells her to leave. He tells her to run.

He can’t save her, he explains. The First Order is not known ‘round the galaxy for its mercy. They will punish her ruthlessly for her crimes. But he can’t— he _won’t_ —let her die. The battlefield around them is turning into a massacre, people on all sides being slaughtered like animals. It smells of decay, and _death,_ and he is scared, so scared for her.

She looks at him, a hard look, like there’s something she wants to tell him, but thinks better of it.

She’s wasting time. Even as they stand there, explosions shake the ground beneath their feet. People pay them no mind—never mind their leaders, their figureheads—they’re too busy, too preoccupied, trying to preserve their own precious lives. Soldiers flee their posts, abandon the cause. Ships explode, careen through the air, drag across the dirt and collapse into rubble—unidentifiable. Families are being broken, tonight.

She steps closer to him, but she has to leave, _now_.

He pushes her, hard, and she runs. She doesn’t look back.

\---

He can’t resist, though.

His eyes follow her, and he sees a slim form in shining armor appear beside her thin frame. Witnesses the activation of a weapon, glinting in the sun.

He calls out to her, _screams_ , his voice cracking. She doesn’t hear. Doesn’t see, doesn’t feel the crackle of heat.

He starts running, but he’s too late.

She is run through.

\---

It is his worst nightmare, come to life.

He catches her just before she hits the ground. A blaster catches his shoulder, but he doesn’t slow down. He cradles her head in his hand, and she’s clutching at his wrist like it’s a lifeline. Her blood stains his fingers, bubbles out of her, and he can’t contain it, can’t stop it—

It is lava, and she is fire, but her spark is dying out. Cooling, cooling, and she’s cold, so cold, to the touch. There are tears pooling, slipping, sliding down his cheeks, unchecked. The wound is deep, square in the center of her chest, with ragged edges, and  bleeding freely. Dark rivulets swirl and dye her clothing, explode like flowers blooming, great roses of distress. He’s pressing his hands into it, trying to keep her life force, her very _essence_ from spilling out of her onto the hard dirt. He’s smeared with blood— _so much blood_ —he’d push it back into her if he could. He cups her chin with one hand, tries to get her eyes to focus, and the blood claims her skin there, too, like war-paint, bright red and angry.

He’s so dizzy, unsteady, in his horror. He feels light-headed, because the bond between them is now thrown open, gates wide, when he’s gone weeks without its touch. And it’s overwhelming him, surges with her own pain, her own terror, her own knowledge that she is very likely going to die. And the bond amplifies it a hundredfold, gives it to him and it’s crushing him, he’s shaking, he’s shaking and she’s _dying_ , the light is pouring out of her and her eyes are dimming and—

He doesn’t know if he can heal her, has never healed anyone before, has never even thought to try. But it’s the only thing that occurs to him now. It’s the only hope he has. His thoughts are blurry, still, even through the panic—or maybe that’s his vision, from the tears? He’s not sure—can’t be sure—but he doesn’t care.

He feels sorrow like a clap of thunder, gathers it, and his love—for he acknowledges it now, can put a name to what it is he has for her—and he takes it, and it feeds into her. Her eyes flutter, and he can’t tell if that’s good or bad, and she’s trying to speak, but it’s weak, so weak, and he doesn’t listen anyway, can’t, can’t think about how these might be the last words she ever speaks. If they are, he doesn’t want them, doesn’t deserve them. Her eyes shut, and he tugs her closer, practically into his lap, trying to hear her shallow breathing in his ear.

The wound closes, slowly, the battle still raging on around them. Fires explode in his periphery, but they mean nothing, _nothing_ , to him, are just a distraction to the task at hand. Another blast nicks him, a flesh wound, across his ribs, and it severs his concentration, but only for a second. The hole in her chest has knit itself together, but her eyes are still closed, and the bloodstains remain. He can’t hear her breath anymore, presses his mouth to her neck to kiss at her pulse.

But there is nothing.

His heart seizes. He is a sinner, awash in all the wickedness he has committed. He is a child, crying for his mother. He is a man, fallible, vulnerable, and _human_ , who has borne far more grief than he thought it was possible to bear. Death is no stranger to him; he has seen terrors far greater than this, but this—her body, cold and lifeless and unmoving—this is the thing that breaks him.

\---

He screams—a soul-wrenching, gut twisting sound, animalistic in its agony. It fades onto the wind, is lost to the shouts of the fight, but it is for her ears only. He bends down, grips her shoulders, far too tightly—he’s sure it would hurt if she could feel it—and presses his lips to hers, his tears falling onto her cheeks. It is wet, and grief-stricken, and he lies, prone over her body, his dark cloak concealing them both, as a third blast hits him, this time in the center of his back.

He jerks forward, in shock, and falls to the ground; his body covers hers, keeping it safe. His vision fades to black, and his blood mingles with hers.


	7. Chapter 7

_A war that is fought on both sides can only be won through patience, and the last things to give in are the unshakeable bonds that are forged through fire and devotion._

\---

The few seconds when he first wakes up are peaceful.

There’s a soft bed underneath his bruised body. He’s—alive? At least, he thinks so. He pops his eyes open tentatively. Light filters in through white, translucent curtains, hanging unobtrusively on the opposite wall. The room is sparse, and clinical, but it’s homier than any ship he’s ever been on. Or maybe it’s just brighter? Either way, he’s certain he’s never been here.

He inhales, and it smells sterile, like cleaning fluid. Some sort of med-bay? His eyes fall on an assortment of tablets on a small side table, and there are some bandages, too. His cloak rests on a chair, folded neatly in half. His sheets are warm, and kind of scratchy, and they’re definitely not First Order blankets. In fact, the room doesn’t look like they’re on a First Order ship at all. It’s too warm, too inviting. But that must mean—

The Resistance has him. And the light sheeting in like gossamer ribbons through wide windows means they’re not on a ship at all; it must be some sort of planetary base. He’s in enemy territory, defenseless—his saber is nowhere to be seen—and he’s been unconscious for who knows how long. He must have been captured, he decides. But somehow, the realization bothers him very little.

He’s comfortable, here. It’s still, and calm, and quiet. He could drift back to sleep and not worry about a thing. Yes, that’d be nice, wouldn’t it? Or, it would be, but—

But something’s missing.

After all, this whole thing makes little sense. If it _is_ true, and the Resistance has snatched him up, then why is he in a med-bay, and not a prison cell lightyears underground?

Maybe he’s been injured?

He sits up slowly and takes stock of his body. There are bandages looping their way around his torso, and two smaller ones taped to his shoulder and side. His chest feels tight, his back sore, but there’s not too much pain. Whatever happened, it must have not been too severe. Why can’t he remember?

He wonders how long he’s been here. He can’t tell— they must have given him something, because his head feels heavy, like it’s filled with cotton—and is that blood under his fingernails? He can feel wet splotches on his cheeks, too, thinks he might have been crying. But why—

And then memory comes, and it knifes through his lungs. He feels the floor tilt out from underneath the bed, like it would fall away entirely and the cosmos would come and swallow him whole.

The mattress groans as he shoots up, looks around wildly. _Where is she?_  His thoughts are urgent, panicked, and all his blood is rushing to his head, _pounding,_ madly, like a beast, like a monster. Images of carnage and bloodshed filter into his brain, and then another memory, blocking all others out: a face, pale and scared, hair flared out under her head like a crown.

There’s another bed in the room, up against the wall, right under the window. Light cascades onto it, illuminates the sheets, but it’s conspicuously empty. He staggers, wide-eyed, and the blankets tangle around his legs. His body aches from his still healing wounds, and his back is uncomfortable and stiff.

He reaches out, but recoils in alarm.

The bond is _gone._ Not like it was before, where he could still sense it, but couldn’t reach across the connection. Now, there is nothing, like it was never there, and he’s so terrified he can’t be sure if he didn’t just dream it up in the first place— there’s no evidence it ever existed.

And he’s hazy, still, because there is no closure. He knows he loves her, has realized that, now, and he knows she loves him, but they still need it to _solidify_ —he needs her to _know_. But now—

Now she’ll never know. She’s dead and she’ll never know that he _loves_ her, that she is his light, so pure and strong. She’s gone. She’s _gone_ , and he doesn’t even notice he’s crying but there are tracks where tears have traveled their way down his cheeks, across his scar, _her_ scar, and wouldn’t it be wonderful if she were here to give him another one, a matching twin, across the other side of his face? His breathing has turned shallow and quick, and he’s still in the center of the room, searching for her face, but his injuries are really starting to _hurt_ now, and he falls to his knees gracelessly, and his chest is on _fire_ and she’s gone and—

And suddenly she walks into the room, glides, more like, and she seems to be surrounded by a strong, ethereal glow. Is she a ghost or is he just passing out, imagining things that aren’t there? Could it be just the sunlight streaming in through the window? No—no mortal could possibly look so angelic.

She’s dressed in a borrowed tunic and leggings, plain, pearly, and a bit too large for her frame. Her face is clear, and bright. Delight dances across her features, and she’s looking at him like she’s happy he’s not dead, like she’s relieved he’s fine, when _she’s_ the one they should be worried about, he watched her die, didn’t he? Felt it, through the bond, felt his heart cleave in two. And he’s not sure if she’s real, or if she’s some sort of vision from beyond the unknown, because she’s dead, isn’t she? But she feels so solid, so real. Her face has a look of concern, and she’s helping him up, steering him back toward the bed, taking a blanket and pulling it over his form. His chest still hurts, but the medicine still pumping through his veins is spreading, making him sleepy, _so sleepy_ , he could sleep for ages, couldn’t he? And suddenly he can’t fight it anymore, but he doesn’t want to close his eyes, doesn’t want her to disappear.

\---

When he wakes again—when did he fall asleep?—he is groggy, but clear-headed. And the bond is…back? It’s _back_ —he could weep, great tears like raindrops, brimming with joy _._ It feels solid, too, no longer shaky and uncertain. He tugs on it, a little. It holds. Tests it again, and it is steel and silver, a sturdy bridge. He feels he could strut confidently across it, all the way to—

And she is there, just there. Sitting in a chair at a table near his bed, in a light doze. There’s no glow to her. She is solid, and real, and somehow, wholly alive. His healing must have worked. He doesn’t know, then what sort of magic saved his life—perhaps she healed him, too? Perhaps they were the ones who needed to save each other. But it hardly matters, now. She is _alive._ He lifts his hand toward his chest, feels the bruises smart from where he’d been pressing down on it, but there is no answering ache of pain lancing through his heart. Even his wounds seem like minor annoyances. They sting a bit, sharply, and then he realizes: there is no haze. Everything is suddenly—

Clear.

His ears have un-muffled. He hears the sound of birds outside, the swirl of the wind, and he feels he could pick out the rustling of leaves miles into the distance. It’s such a foreign, open feeling that he can’t help but sit for a moment and douse himself in the clarity. And, then, just because he can, he reaches out for the glass of water on his nightstand, noting, once again, how peaceful, how calm, how still, it all is, and without hesitation—with steady fingers—pours it over his head.

It is cold, and clear, and the best thing he’s felt in a month. He feels every droplet sliding its way under his shirt, every bead of water clinging to his hair, and it wakes him up even more, and it’s so wonderful, he feels like laughing. He hasn’t laughed in—he doesn’t know how long—but he feels already a grin tugging across his lips, completely of its own volition. He wants to jump for joy—can’t remember a time in the past where he had ever done so, but does it now, with a whoop and a holler that make her stir— and _oh_ , she is here, and he finally wants her to be, and they have finally, _finally_ , accepted each other for what they are.

\---

Her eyes flutter open, and they land on him and the smile on his face, and she knows. She knows, and she smiles, too, and the bond _sings_. It sings, and then it settles, weightless, like a feather, into their souls, into their hearts. The pain, the frustration, the aching, the emptiness—they all dissolve, like dust, ashes of demons long defeated.

And there is such a feeling of serenity, of completion, that they both reach out, like they always do, like they always knew they would. They clasp hands, and they meet in the middle for a clear-headed, sweet, un-hazy kiss. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! 
> 
> This is the first fanfic I've ever completed (and published!), so I'd love to hear what you all think! I've been wanting to publish my writing for a long time and this is such a great platform to do so.  
> This story turned out to be a lot longer than I had envisioned, but that's just how things go.  
> I appreciate all comments, good and bad!  
> Thanks for reading!


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